


Scavengers

by calrissian18



Series: Wolf & Boy: A Division of Cat & Mouse, Inc. [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark, Hint of Derek/Stiles, Injured Stiles, Kidnapped Stiles, M/M, Manipulation, Minor Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3277298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles is missing.”</p><p>Peter’s not certain if the emotional delivery of the news is for his benefit or something Derek can’t help.  Either way, it’s a repugnant display.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scavengers

**Author's Note:**

> I... _might_ be done with this series? Either way, thanks go to Emeraldawn for the pre-read!
> 
> Written for the fullmoon_ficlet prompt: Entrance.

The scent of overcooked, rotten meat is curling up from under the iron barrier of Derek’s door.  Means it’s not panic—which smells more like overripe fruit—at least not yet.  Anxiety.

The door’s been left carelessly open and Peter takes it as the invitation it isn’t.  He shoves it aside with a distinct lack of gentility and lifts the fingers of his glove on one hand, pulling it smoothly off once it’s loose enough, grip easy.  He does the same with the other, shoves them in the back pocket of his jeans and enjoys the way Derek’s nostrils flare trying to figure out exactly what dirty work he’s been doing with them.

He scents nothing, to Peter’s intense lack of surprise, and his eyes squint like he’s in pain before he says tightly, “Stiles is missing.”

Peter’s not certain if the emotional delivery of the news is for his benefit or something Derek can’t help.  Either way, it’s a repugnant display.  He shrugs evenly.  “I doubt he’ll appreciate being found.”  He plucks an apple from a bowl of them Derek keeps in the corner of his kitchen counter, turns it halfway around checking its skin.  “He wants to die, who are you to argue?”

Scott’s eyes burn red like the base of a flame and he snarls, “He doesn’t.”  The furl of his lips softens, becomes less of a tight growl.  “Not anymore.”

Peter drops the apple back in the bowl.  It doesn’t quite live up to his standards and he flashes a sharp grin at Scott.  He wishes he could challenge him properly, an Alpha for an Alpha, but those days will come again.  “Is that the lie he’s been feeding you?”  The words are insidious, designed to find their greatest impact in the dead of night rather than at the time they’re delivered.

Derek gets further into Peter’s space than he’s usually willing to go, lowers his voice to give this the illusion of privacy and says, “I would think you, of all people, would be leading the charge.”

Peter’s brows raise, surprised before he remembers who he’s dealing with.  “Yes, you would think that,” he agrees after a moment.  He searches Derek with nothing more than his gaze.  “But then you’ve never understood me at all, have you?”

Derek juts his chin to the side, chews up and spits out, “Few people speak amoral asshole.”  He takes a step back, purses his lips and adds, as though it’s incentive to care, “Stiles seems to.”

He’s trying to make Peter feel.  Peter intends to show how little he does.  “Perhaps you should get used to employing the past tense when referring to him?”

That’s too much for Scott, who leapfrogs Derek’s counter to slam Peter up against the cabinets and snarl in his face, challenged Alpha in every fiber of him.

Peter lets him have his fun for a few seconds before casually brushing off the claws twisted up in his jacket.  Scott’s already proven he’s too good to kill, too moral to know the difference between necessary and right and Peter’s as far from intimidated by him as it’s possible to be.  “Posture as much as you like,” he allows.  Gaze darting around to the assembled teenagers and his own hapless nephew.  “I’m not the one wasting resources and manpower on a boy that doesn’t want to be saved.”

Derek nods his head slightly, agrees coldly, “No, you’re not.”  He’s halfway out of the loft when he adds gravely, throwing over his shoulder so Peter can’t see his eyes, “I’ll remember that.”

* * *

There’s no question of whether or not it’s Kate who has him and Peter had made it a point to find her, to know where she was, to strike a deal with her so he could keep apprised of her movements.  The fact that she could ever believe that he could compartmentalize her burning his entire family alive said more about her state of mind than his.  She was all instinct and wildness, lost to the pull of the animal inside her, no scruples, no guiding internal mantra, just an ache to survive and a willingness to do anything to satisfy it.

She was the closest thing Peter had ever seen to a true monster.

The only question he has left now is why Stiles.  His own scent had long since faded from his life, his skin, which left Scott or Derek that her kidnapping was meant to inflame.  Which means it’s best if they don’t play into her claws.

Peter finds him easily, barely conscious and tied to a steel girder that’s more rock than metal in an underground cavern.  His eyes flutter at the wet sound of Peter’s footsteps through this modern cave system they’ve found themselves in.  His lips curve in a weak attempt at a smile and he huffs.

There’s blood between his teeth, slicking his lower lip, coating it like wet paint.  Redness on his face, road rash, like it’s been ground into the walls or the grated floor.  Scratches along his jaw, bruising on his neck and shoulder and his scent is sour like lemons in a fresh grove.  Peter remembers what it is, what it means.  _Hunger_.  She’s been starving him and his body is cannibalizing itself with zest.

It overpowers the iron scent of his blood.

He rolls his head off his chest, like he needs the momentum to lift it, snorts.  “You haven’t lost your flair for making an entrance.”  Peter wonders what he must look like, a dark silhouette against the only meager light.  Stiles licks his lip, darts his tongue into the corner of his mouth.  If he can taste his own blood, his expression doesn’t show it.  His eyes drag down Peter’s face, flicker over his shoulder and he raises his eyebrows, prompting.  “Where’s the rest of the cavalry?”

Peter takes a step closer, wants to be able to look into Stiles’ eyes.  Dripping water catches his chest and shoulder and he ignores it.  It’s a clean scent it brings with it, if slightly briny.  “Being useless in a semi-dangerous location seems likely, based purely on past performance.”

Stiles looks away, says with a twist to his lips, “You didn’t tell them I was here.”  It’s not a question.

“I had no way of knowing if my hunch was correct, did I?” Peter defends with a smirk.  He allows his gaze to roam around even though his senses have been tweaked for the slightest unfamiliar sound.  “Where is Kate?  I am assuming it’s she who’s keeping you here.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, pressing his back straighter up against the beam as though he’s trying to get his feet under him.  It doesn’t work, the grating is too slick and the soles of his sneakers slide out from under him and he ends up sitting back down hard.  “And I don’t know,” he says, winded, angry, “spouted some remarkably unhinged bullcrap about Mayan temples, morphed into a feral-looking smurf and knocked me out.”

Peter raises an eyebrow.  “Why did she take you?”

“Leverage,” Stiles spits.

Peter takes another step, asks more intently, “Against whom?”

Stiles won’t meet his eyes, licks his upper lip and stares off to the side.  It’s answer enough.  If it had been Scott, there would have been no reason to hesitate.  His eyes slowly flutter back to Peter’s and he swallows when he can see Peter understands.  He shuffles his shoulders, tells more than asks, “She’s wrong about that, right?  I mean, he doesn’t—”  Whatever he sees in Peter’s face has him snapping his jaw shut.  His posture slumps.  “Oh.”

“I’m not entirely certain the draw to you is a romantic one,” Peter tells him.  It’s true but rests heavily on ‘entirely.’  If Derek’s affection for Stiles is platonic then it’s doing a remarkable job of masquerading around under the guise of yearning looks and sped-up heartbeats.  Stiles doesn’t need to know that however.  He’s not stable enough to handle the desires of someone as ruinous and ruined as Derek.  “Evoking any emotion from Derek is enough to merit attention.”

Stiles seems to resolve himself to believing the words, the alternative not a viable option, and his head falls back against the beam.  He tenses against it and asks finally, “You gonna get me out of this then?”

“How far off are you from getting yourself out?”  Peter’s genuinely curious.

He wriggles around, considering.  “Day and a half?” he guesses.  “The rock it’s hooked on is blunt, the rope’s tough, not to mention I’m pretty sure I’m taking off more skin than anything else.”

Peter makes a circuit of him.  He’s not wrong.  The skin around his wrists is ragged and torn and Peter’s glad Stiles’ back is to him as his eyes flare up blue, vengeance in them.  His lip raises.  There’s still something that evokes  _recompense_  when he sees marks on Stiles that he hasn’t put there himself—a pound of flesh for a pound of flesh.

Stiles flexes his hands, tugs his wrists in opposite directions so the rope is pulled taut over the rock it’s crossing.  “ _Well_?”  Peter comes back around to his front.  “What are you doing?” he growls, eyes narrowing to slits.  He bangs his arms against the beam.  “Hard to score points for a rescue if you don’t actually do any rescuing.”

Peter tilts his head back, lets the water drop down onto his face.  There’s a chemical scent under the clean and a better spout of it past Stiles.  He soaks himself in it and comes back dripping, grinning.

Stiles looks uneasy.  He’s right to.  “Peter?” he tries unevenly.

Peter smirks.  “I’m going to teach you to fish.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, unable to steer away from his knee-jerk sarcasm this time.  “Well this seems like the most opportune moment for it.”

Peter’s scent is subsumed under the most potent one from the tunnel, the astringent smell of bleach or vinegar or something in between, and Kate is too wild to be alert to intruders.  She thinks she has the upper hand, thinks she’s dealing with Derek, who’ll blunder in preferring action over thought.  She doesn’t think of Stiles as a threat.

It takes her over an hour to return.  Stiles only berates Peter to untie him for fifteen minutes and then there’s nothing but stony silence from him, a muttered, “Should’ve fucking known,” before he goes quiet.  Peter listens to his breathing, to the sound of falling water, to the echoes of movement in the tunnels.

He knows she’s there full minutes before she arrives and her gaze goes right to Stiles.  She opens her mouth and Peter slams her into the wall of rock, head first.  He hitches her arms up behind her back, slams her again while she roars and Stiles wasn’t exaggerating about the blue skin.  A good shard of rock comes down with the crash and Peter kicks it purposefully over to Stiles.

It takes him two minutes to cut through the rope.  He hops to on shaky legs, tries to pass and Peter rams Kate into him.  Lets her get close enough to be a threat to him but not to bite.  He yanks back on her hair just to make sure, her bones cracking under the grip of his hand holding her arms.  “Do it,” he snarls.

Stiles is still holding the rock, too smart to have let it go.  It’s long but blunt.  Stabbing it into her won’t be easy.  He’ll have to mean it.

His eyes widen in disbelief as he takes in Peter’s meaning.  His voice is shaky but fierce as he gets out, “Fuck you.”

“She’ll kill Derek,” Peter reminds him.  Stiles isn’t Scott, he’ll understand this.  If he’s anything Peter thought he was when he offered him the bite, he’ll do this.  “She was willing to conspire with me to kill Scott,” he adds, dropping the information like the anvil it is.  “She would’ve killed you as easily as she breathes.  End her, Stiles.”

Stiles is trembling and he lets out a huffy little laugh.  It’s removed, like he’s working this through in a dream rather than real life.  His eyes dart up to Peter’s.  “All this to make me into you?”

“Nonsense,” Peter says gamely.  “I never did quite manage it, did I?”

Stiles shakes his head, eyes tracking empty air.  “I don’t want to be this.”

Peter leans in, lets him in on the open secret, “You already are.”  Kate goes with the motion and her jaws are already open.  Stiles backs up as much as he can but he’s still within range and Peter’s voice slips under the roar, insistent and dark, “And more than that, Stiles, your heartbeat just skipped.”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate again, swings his arm and brings it home in Kate’s open eye.  He’s yelling, a war cry, and he’s got enough momentum that he slams Peter back into the wall behind him and when he finally yanks the shard of rock free, it’s only to stab it back in.  Again and again and again until he can’t lift his arm, until Kate goes limp in Peter’s grip and her head sags and he drops her like the soulless garbage she is.

Stiles’ hands are shaking so badly that the bloody hunk of rock falls from his numb fingers and he turns them over, staring blankly at the slick redness.

Peter kicks Kate’s limp body out of the way and steps so close to Stiles that the toes of their shoes are nearly touching.  Stiles doesn’t back away from him, looks up with empty eyes.  Peter’s never wanted him more but he keeps his hands to himself, only meets his desolate gaze and whispers, “Who’s the wolf now?”

Stiles looks away, down at his hands.  Down at Kate.  His expression doesn’t go regretful or horrified.  There’s only one word for the look on his face:  _satisfied_.

The question that had seemed to forever be on the tip of Stiles’ tongue has dried up, turned to ash or dust, something in between maybe.  Empty and unsatisfying no matter what you call it.  In the wake of his hunger, of him slaking his thirst, he’s found his answer.

He doesn’t ask if Peter will kill him now.  They both know the question is moot.

“I’ll kill you,” Peter tells him, eyes dancing, giving reassurance Stiles hasn’t asked for.  Reassurance Peter is nearly certain he no longer wants but he wants to  _hear_  him say it.  He’s close enough now that the rush of air into the panting rise and fall of Stiles’ chest is like the distant roar of a waterfall.

Stiles is slow to raise his head, has to drag his eyes up from the bloody mess of Kate’s face.  There’s a coldness to them, like the golden glint of the sun setting has finally been snuffed away.  Less dazzling, more silent intensity.  It’s an empty stretch of tundra there now, a hard road, and a hatred when he looks into Peter’s own steel gaze.  He knows now, why Peter made him be the one to do it, why he’s goaded him with the words.  His mouth pulls to the side, his own dried blood cracking as it’s stretched, and he says gruffly, heartbeat steady, “Not if I kill you first.”

He thinks it’s a promise, thinks it’s a fitting end to them.  He doesn’t know that soon now Peter will be standing close enough that his breaths will sound like a monsoon crashing down on him, that he’ll spread his thighs for him, that his hands will reach out like they’re starving for him.  They’re both wolves now, survivors, scavengers, more suited to each other than ever before and he’ll find that out soon enough, when Scott’s goodness scrapes against his new, sharp edges, when Derek’s too slow to act against a threat, when his pack can’t match his darkness and he’ll turn to the only one who can.

Peter stares into the hate in Stiles’ eyes and smiles.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/). I'd follow me.


End file.
